Joel Shepherd - Tracato

Lord Elen’s two minor lords made way as Damon approached with the army’s senior priest Father Syd…with a scuttling bow that made Damon’s skin crawl. He did not like these people, with their furtive, darting glances and fearful manners. Lord Elen was a big man, as much fat as muscle, balding with long, black hair at the back, and thick whiskers down to where beefy neck met receding jaw. He dressed as lordly lowlands nobility would, house colours over armour and sword, all martial to impress the Lenay warriors.

“This man can swear to it,” Elen was insisting, pointing to another. Only then did Damon notice the Algrassian priest, an ageing, scrawny man in a threadbare black robe, leaning on a staff and shivering. “This man, he sees, and he speaks with the authority of the gods!”

“The Royal Guards are honour-sworn to protect the princess under all circumstances,” Koenyg replied flatly. “It would not matter if she were attacked by a mob of little girls wielding kitchen knives, they would kill to protect her from so little as a scratch. We’ll not hand them over to your justice, it’s impossible.”

“But, but…” Elen spread his hands. “Your Highness, this is a crime! A crime has been committed, eight of my villagers are dead! Surely there must be justice?” He looked past Koenyg, to King Torvaal. Torvaal stood deathly silent, wrapped in his black robe. Dark eyes within an impassive, lean, bearded face. Damon had barely heard him speak five words on the ride so far. He did not expect that to change now.

“The justice you suggest is impossible,” said Koenyg, folding his arms. Damon recognised that look, that stance. Had seen it too often through his childhood. It had been his torment then, but now, it heartened him. Koenyg would not give this man a hair from a Lenay guardsman’s head. “The soldiers are honour-bound to protect and obey the princess. In truth, the fault is hers. She is young and soft of heart. She acted without understanding the grave insult she would cause to your people. I trust you do not suggest that she should be punished?”

Lord Elen seemed to find that amusing, in the manner of a man confronted by an obvious fact, denied by idiots. Yet he could not say so, and so comported himself with forced dignity, fighting back exasperation.

“Of course not, Prince Koenyg. I have nothing but love and admiration for the princess, our future queen. But…there must be some reparation. What do you suggest?”

“Lenayin is not a kingdom of paupers, Lord Elen,” said Koenyg. “We can pay gold to the villagers for their loss. Name a suitable price.”

Willem Hoeshel winced. Lord Elen looked uncomfortable, and coughed. “Prince Koenyg, it would be beneath us to discuss such unseemly matters so openly.” Lords did not talk about money in the Bacosh, Damon recalled. To do so was…uncivilised. Meanwhile, peasants starved and lords dined on fine fare in opulent castles. But heavens no, gold was not discussed. “Furthermore, I fear that mere gold shall be insufficient. In the Bacosh-as, I am led to believe, in Lenayin-blood is repaid in blood, and…”

“Lord Elen,” Koenyg said shortly, “what do you suggest? That I find some poor sop for you to behead at random? To appease your desire for revenge? In some few weeks, Lenayin’s finest sons shall spill their blood upon your fields to reclaim that which all your armies have been unable to win in two centuries of trying. We have marched a very long way to do so, upon your invitation. That is gift enough, don’t you think? Or would you ask more?”

There was no mistaking the dangerous edge to the prince’s tone. Lord Elen’s faint humour vanished and he inclined his head. “No, my Prince. Forgive me, this is a difficult situation. At least, allow us to reclaim the two criminals that the princess has freed, and restore our justice upon them .”

“The boy died,” said Damon. All present turned to look at him, and Father Syd. “His bones were showing, our healer thinks there was an infection too.”

Lord Elen inclined his head once more, as though to acknowledge a good thing. “The other one, then,” he requested.

“He was ten,” Damon continued. Koenyg was staring at him, warningly. Damon did not care. “The girl is his sister. She is sixteen. Villagers accused their mother of laying with a man who had serrin blood. The mother was one of the two already dead. The older man was her father. I can’t see how he is responsible for his daughter’s bed partners. I suppose he was merely available. ”

“My good Prince,” said Lord Elen, with a condescending, bitter smile, “I do not question your laws or customs. Please do not question that of your hosts.”

“Witchcraft,” Damon snorted. “The serrin are not witches, Lord Elen. Hate them you may, if you choose, but these charges against innocent villagers are nonsense.”

“You show great concern for the welfare of my villagers, Prince Damon,” Elen replied, “for one whose men have just murdered eight of them. What we choose to call the serrin is our business. They are unholy and ungodly, of that our priests assure us. They are a blight on this land, filling the minds of the corrupt with filth and decadence. Why, barely three years ago the forces of good made a great purge of all serrin influence and bloodlines in this region. There were fires, devil’s fruit, nooses and impaling stakes across the hills and valleys, and it was indeed a beautiful sight.”

The man’s blue eyes were wide with defiance and anger. Damon stared, feeling cold. He’d heard of the purges. The slaughters. He’d thought some of the lords, at least, might have the humanity to feel embarrassed. Serrin had rarely even visited these lands; it was unlikely any of the several thousand killed had been guilty as accused.

“Nothing ungodly about the serrin,” Father Syd growled. Lord Elen’s wide blue eyes turned upon the big priest. “Serrin are gentle folk. Their only crime is words, while others who call themselves godly impale innocents with steel. The scripture of Saint Vestos says all evil is flowered in the souls of men. Gods have nothing to do with it, and serrin neither.”

“And this is what passes for the faith in Lenayin, I presume?” Lord Elen asked the gathering.

“You will not presume to teach the faith to our lowlands guests,” Koenyg told the priest, sharply.

“You speak for your armies, Your Highness,” Syd retorted fiercely. He was a big man, looking more a warrior with cloak, beard and staff than a man of faith. “I speak for the faith in Lenayin, not you.”

Lord Elen blinked in astonishment. He looked further astonished that Koenyg did not strike off Syd’s head for the insolence. Koenyg merely ground his teeth and fumed. Lord Elen repressed a laugh, to see the fractious, uncivilised Lenays arguing so, priest against prince in the presence of others. The old, shivering Algrassian priest merely stared, uncomprehending. Not much Torovan spoken in these parts save amongst the nobility, Damon guessed.

“Highnesses,” said Elen, swallowing his amusement with difficulty. “If you please, I would collect the remaining criminal and be gone. There will be angry families to answer to, and reparations to make.”

Damon stared at the man, and at Koenyg, and his stern, silent father. They would marry his Sofy to the likes of this ? For a moment, he felt almost sick with fury.

“You may take her,” Koenyg said impassively. “I shall accompany you. There will be my sister and her guards to deal with.” Lord Elen bowed.

Koenyg swept past Damon, with a glare that nearly made him flinch. Furious as he was, still a glare from Koenyg could make his knees tremble. Lord Elen and his cronies followed Koenyg, and Damon strode fast to confront his father.